


Drakovich

by laudatenium



Category: Marvel 616
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Dragons, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Love Confessions, M/M, Secrets, Tony-centric, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 12:56:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5457260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laudatenium/pseuds/laudatenium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Between safety and adventure, I choose adventure.”</p><p>This is the story of Precious One of the Steelscales.  Of his loss and rediscovery.  And how he was able to shed the weight of his heart and fly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drakovich

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cnide](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cnide/gifts).



> Quote is from Craig Ferguson’s autobiography, American On Purpose. It reminds me of Tony, so shoot me.
> 
> This is for cinde, who prompted: "Any: Either Steve or Tony is hiding a magical creature/strange superpower from everyone else (for what reason is up to you), but the other is suspicious and tries to find out what the issue is." and also asked for dragons and fix-its. I feel rather bad, honestly, b/c this deserves a 100k epic, but I hope you enjoy what I have!
> 
> Okay, so, 616 Tony is adopted, yes? Apparently. I can’t say I’m a big fan of the concept, but I will exploit it for my purposes. I know International Iron Man is being published next year, but I’m guessing it’s really a toss-up if Tony’s true parentage will be any . . . good. Gosh, that sounds terrible. But until IIM, I am allowed to play in the sandbox. Nyah.
> 
> This is set in the undetermined future of 616, or whatever the verse is now. Steve is young and Cap again, blah blah, I don’t follow comics the best, ‘kay? But the adoption thing was revealed in 2013, so I set this in the vague future and will not be making many references to past events. Also, it’s known in the Avengers’ circles that Tony was adopted, but it’s not public knowledge. I think that's it . . . ?

Tony can tell when they’ve traveled far enough, because the dull pain of his ear popping ripples down his jaw. He ignores it in favor of taking a long draught from the hot . . . beverage of some sort Akim’s wife had provided at the beginning of their journey.  It isn’t coffee, or tea, or anything else Tony has ever tasted.  There is milk of some sort in it, and it’s very thick, with warm spices laced throughout.  Inga had tried to pour half a bottle of bathtub vodka into the thermos, but Tony had braved her baffled stare as he waved her off.

 

“<What is in this?>” Tony directs at Akim, who is focused on the snowy gorge in front of them.

 

“<It keeps you warm in the mountains. But you had my wife leave out the best part.>”  Akim’s tone is joshing and light, but curious of his wealthy passenger.

 

“<I do not need to fall back into a vat of alcohol, you understand.>”

 

“Da,” the man utters as he turns back to the terrain before them, leaving Tony still wondering what he is drinking. Whatever it is, it’s good.  And Akim has been good thus far at not asking questions.

 

Rightfully so. Tony isn’t paying him in more rubles than possibly imaginable in this region and the unreleased StarkSnowtreader to ask questions.  Akim’s job is to use his experience to escort his single passenger as deep into the Ural Mountains as possible, before dropping Tony off and heading back to his village.  It is January, but Akim, Inga, and their children’s lives will be exponentially better after this occurrence, so Akim was agreeable to the job.  They both get what they want.  Akim gets money and a vehicle that will make his mountaineering business far more profitable.  Tony gets to follow a vapor trail into one of the most treacherous regions of the world.

 

_“Where are you going?”_

_“Away. Just.  I need to figure some things out.  About myself.  Alone.  Might be gone awhile.”_

_“Well . . . be safe, Tony. Take a beacon, in case you need help.”_

_“Will do, Steve.”_

 

Emergency beacons are a feature of every suit he builds nowadays, but he let Steve give his advice. It made him feel better.

 

But, between safety and adventure? Tony will always choose adventure.

 

Steve should know that.

 

Better to have their possible last words together cordial than a spitting fight.

 

Not that Tony intends to die on this journey. But it’s possible.  More than likely.  But if he does survive?  Who knows if he’ll be in any fit state to return to the Avengers.

 

It’s not often that Tony willingly heads into a situation of which he has next to zero intel. But this isn’t anything he can hack, isn’t anything he can just blast his way into.  It’s tracking papers and making deductions.

 

The paper trail is scant, and parts are obscured and destroyed, but Tony was able to follow the path. Anthony was the name given to him at the age of two weeks, when quietly adopted on Long Island.  His birth records were foraged, and there were no adoption papers.  He seemed to appear out of nowhere.  But that’s what Howard wanted.  A seamless transition from the real Stark heir to a child who would be able to at least partially fill the role.

 

None of the records were digitized, so Tony was forced to spend several days in a mildew-y basement, digging through the musty boxes holding the records from the month before his adoption. There must have been some scrap of information Howard had missed.

 

And there was.

 

David Drakovich Kuznetsov. Pronounced “Dah-VEET”, because he’s apparently Russian.  The boy was indicated to have been brought from the USSR to the USA when he was about two weeks old.  Then David disappeared from the record.  No pictures, nothing but the address of the orphanage in Sverdlovsk.

 

So it was off to Yekaterinburg for Tony. The orphanage’s records miraculously survived, despite age and the dissolution of the Soviet Union and the city’s name turnover.  For a case of rubles, the ladies in the office turned a blind eye to Tony rifling through the building’s records.

 

He sat on the damp floor with boxes and boxes of late Soviet-era birth and adoption documents, wearing multiple layers and still was cold.

 

There’s no way of being certain, but something in his gut told him that he was most certainly David.

 

There’s no official birth date, but David was left at the orphanage as a newborn on the day he has always been told he was born, and had looked to be approximately a few hours old. The initial check-up said he was healthy and had a lusty cry.  The mother had decided to remain anonymous, but had insisted on the name he had been given.

 

That part of the file was standard, but there is more.

 

A second, more invasive examination had been performed, stressing overall health, a brain capacity in the ninety-ninth percentile, and an appearance that could pass as German/Italian. Belated research done on the mother, who seemed to come from a small town high in the Ural Mountains.  The person who’d written the report had cited several other children suspected to be from the area, all of whom were cited with genius-level intellect.  Tony actually recognizes a few names.  A chess prodigy, several scientists working in the Russian government, a writer.  There are copies of those children’s files, and pictures sent for comparison.  All the children have dark hair and very familiar eyes.  All with the patronymic “Drakovich” or “Drakovna”.

 

Not things normal records usually include, but there were records of correspondence with _someone_ who was interested in the baby.

 

It doesn’t take genius to figure it out.

 

The next step was to find the mysterious village where the Drakovich children came from. Which doesn’t seem to exist.  People told him that it would be impossible to make a settlement there, and the mountains are full of dangers.  The cold being the worst.  Even in summer, when the lower parts thaw, the terrain is rugged and filled with natural barriers that make it nigh impossible to get where Tony desires to go.

 

He has more luck with the locals, who live in tiny pockets tucked around the base of the mountains. They claim it is still very dangerous, but not impossible.  In the summer.  But the locals are a superstitious bunch, and there are areas that they refuse to go.  Frightened that they would encroach on the territory of some flying beast that has left them in peace for centuries, save the occasional sheep.

 

“<It is unknown, and not to be known>” an old woman had told him with a dismissive tone. “<Unless you are to know.>”

 

Gotta love them old Russian ladies.

 

But Tony doesn’t fear knowledge. It is against his nature.  Enlightenment is not always kind, and it can be an immense burden, but he has found more pure joy in learning than in any other pursuit besides maybe standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Steve as they took on the world.  When things were easier, and they weren’t so beaten.

 

He has the armor, so the terrain isn’t an issue. He probably should wait for spring at least, but he is fit to burst, chasing answers that have led here.  Tony doesn’t know how the Urals might hold the key to the puzzle of his origin, but waiting has never been his strong suit.

 

Now he is here, Akim at the wheel as he shows Tony the most reliable, not fastest, route through the valleys. It had been a condition for his employment.

 

“<You are not the first to make this journey>” Akim says unexpectedly.

 

“<How do you mean?>”

 

“<There have been others. Lost ones.  They insist on going up into the mountains.>”

 

“<Do they ever come down?>”

 

“<Sometimes. My father brought a young woman up here many years ago, when I was very small.  She appears in the village on occasion.  She looks no different from forty years ago.>”

 

“Ah.” It’s still nothing to go on.

 

 

 

Akim looks guilty when they reach the furthest point he is willing to traverse.

 

“<I could take you further in the summer>” he offers, but Tony waves him off.

 

“<You’ve done as I asked. I must thank you.>”

 

They unload Tony’s things, which consist of a large pack filled with food, tools, and other necessities, and the hand case holding his armor. His clothing was engineered to generate and retain the ideal temperature while being fit for weeks of wear if necessary. 

 

The wind still bites as it rushes across his bundled figure. But there is no winning against the Russian winter.  Something you only need to look at Napoleon or Hitler to know.

 

He stands, vulnerable in his snow shoes. Nothing but a few layers of cloth protects him from frostbite and death.

 

He waves as Akim reluctantly climbs back into the snow trawler and turns back the way they came.

 

Tony turns, looks at the snow and ice, rock and sparse pines, and picks a random direction.

 

He pulls his snow shoes from crust of virgin snow, tramping through a place not meant for man.

 

 

 

Regret is a living, breathing thing within him.

 

It doesn’t seem like he’s gotten anywhere before he has to stop and make camp for the night. His legs ache.  He has no practice wearing snow shoes, and finds himself lifting each foot far too high to be efficient, but if he doesn’t he’ll be stuck.  His knees ache, his hips ache, his calves ache, his thighs ache.  They throb with each beat of his heart, loud in his ears along with the howl of winds over gorges.

 

He never really understood just how relentless the Russian winter was until now. As he is in the midst and at the mercy of it.

 

Natasha and Bucky would be laughing at him so hard.

 

He finds a slightly denser copse of thick firs, and attempts to settle in. He has no tent, idiot, but a portable thermal burner that will have to do.  He heats up some snow, then uses it to rehydrate an MCW.  The scarf covering his mouth sticks wetly in his beard from the humidity of his breath as he peels it away to shove his chicken stew in his face.

 

Saying it's cold is an understatement.  "Frigid" is also an understatement.  There's really no way to describe a Russian winter other than a Russian winter.  It eats at your very essence.  It isn't _meant_ to be survivable.  But somehow people do.

 

His family did.

 

Tony had one of those fancy DNA tests done, the ones that trace your genes by ethic group, and found he was pretty much half-and-half Russian and Italian, with some Spaniard and Mongol mixed in.  It really doesn't matter, in this day and age of mass immigration and melting pots, but it did give him a little bit _something_ to go on.  Maybe someday there will be a world DNA data bank, but until that time comes, you're sunk unless you have a close relative who is a criminal.

 

It isn't healthy to come up with prospective scenarios of your origins, because they could _never_ be right.  But he can't stop himself.  The current favorite in his mind is an Italian man, on business or vacation, met a young Russian woman and left her pregnant, and she was forced to leave him in Sverdlovsk by her family.  Along the way, throughout this mad journey, Tony has focused on his mother.  It takes to much to be a mother, and so little to be a father.  He doesn't need to find the source of an ejaculation; he needs to find the woman who carried him, who bore him, who wrapped him tenderly in blankets and put him up for adoption in the desperate hope he would have a better life.  He can't be certain, of course.  But sometimes, he _feels_ like he can feel her, and her warmth, and her love.

 

It's ridiculous, but it's all he has.  A feeling.

 

A feeling that she loved him.

 

Sometimes when he thinks about her, he feels ashamed.  Because Maria Stark most certainly loved him.  That he knows for certain.  Maybe on lonely nights he doubted it, but deep down he knows she loved him, and he knows she gave him what she could.  It feels like cheating on her, in an odd sense.  Trying to find love from another person.

 

But Maria Stark will always be his Mom.  She's who he thinks of when that word comes up in conversation, and he will always remember to have flowers delivered to her grave on her birthday and on Mother's Day when he can't deliver them himself.  She's the one in the pictures, holding him as a baby, holding his hand, on his arm at his graduations.  Hers is the voice her hears when he wants comfort, and hers is the warmth he imagines when it all gets too much.

 

She always understood him, so he thinks she'd want him to search for his birth family.  Because she would know that not knowing would make him want to peel his skin off.

 

He picks at the chocolate, then munches the dry, crumbing granola bars. He is gathering the packaging together when he feels the prickle of eyes on him.

 

It’s not a new feeling for today. He’s felt it many times, though never sees anything.  There isn’t much in terms of animal life this deep in the mountains, and the stuff that is here is likely hibernating.  But solitude makes people see things, hear things.  He’s familiar with his mind playing with him, when he’s alone and doubting.

 

He turns, and a tree rustles, clumps of snow falling from the branches.

 

Wind. Just wind.

 

Something ripples above him, a shadow maybe fifty feet long.  Green.  Gold.

 

Tony has his thermal mitten off and an armored gauntlet on when a resounding _whump-thump_ of something landing in thick snow echoes through the gorge.  He crouches behind a tree, and sees something massive and reptilian moving in the half-darkness, and primes a repulsor.

 

“Stay back,” he calls out, his voice loud, just in case the thing spooks easily. It doesn’t.

 

There is the sound of a large inhale and exhale, then a fog of white curls almost lethargically through the air.

 

He tries to cover his mouth and nose, but blast of the gas that the creature breathes hits him, and he crumples to the snow.

 

 

 

It’s been instilled in him to feign sleep for a few seconds to assess a situation for possible dangers. Usually he’s only at home, in his own lab or bed, so it usually passes.  Hotels take a bit longer, but he can usually place it after a moment or two.  The times he’s woken in a hostile situation has made the practice worth it, saving his own life and others countless times.

 

Waking up on the ground is usually bad. His cheek is pressed to what feels like some sort of smooth concrete or stone.  Not quite marble.  There isn’t any of the usual pain Tony associates with spending any amount of time on the compact surface.  There are blankets wrapped around him, with one cushioning his temple and the top of his skull.  He is curled in the fetal position.  No chains or cuffs around his wrists or ankles, so that’s good.  His gauntlet is still on.  The armor case digs into his side.  Where is he?  Damn it’s cold here.

 

He opens his eyes slowly.

 

The room is opulent, but he can’t place the style. Its characteristics remind him of something Classical or Rococo, but not quite.  The wall is smooth stone, mounted with colossal mirrors and paintings in ornate frames and luxurious tapestries.  The paintings and tapestries depict natural landscapes, mountain and sea and desert, bereft of any animals or buildings.  No identifiable school to them, but Tony can recognize a decent hand when he sees it.  No windows, but warmly glowing orbs are suspended from the ceiling, high as the Capitol Rotunda above him.

 

Steve would love to draw this place, Tony thinks idly.

 

Then he remembers the flash of gold and green in the sky.

 

He turns around slowly.

 

Its body is somewhere between the traditional “western” and “eastern” varieties. Its wings are pure western, thin membranes of scaly skin folded loosely.  The body longer and more serpentine, with four claws, one of which appears opposable.  That’s eastern.  The snout is just plain _lizard-like_ , long and narrow snout with flared nostrils and sharp teeth.  Not the lionish characteristics of the East, but there is some sort of small frill and long . . . _antennae_ , if that’s the proper term, tucked neatly about the base of the skull.

 

A delirious part of his brain echoes a benign remark Natasha once made during one of their spa days. _“Russia . . . it can be hard to explain. It is a bridge and a barrier, between East and West.  Both and neither.  Purely . . . Russian.”_   He remembers her wolfish smile as she nibbled at one of her eye cucumbers.

 

Who’d of thunk it would apply to fucking _dragons?_

 

The beast snorts softly in its sleep. Maybe that’s how dragons snore?  He doesn’t know.  Doesn’t intend to stick around to find out.  He’s been in enough strange situations to know when it’s best to flee.

 

But something makes him pause.

 

He’s not in any form of immediate danger, as far as he can tell. If it wanted to eat him, it could have done so by now.  It may be saving him for later, but why is he _here_ , in this opulent chamber with his armor at his side, a warm blanket draped over his shoulders?

 

A tiny voice whispers in his ear. _You’ve come for answers, have you not?_

 

And no, no, that’s not a voice that he thinks in. That’s not his mother’s voice, soothing his fears, or Howard, hurling insults, or Steve, still wholeheartedly believing in him.  It isn’t a voluntary thought, or a randomly occurring one.  It was planted there, by an outside force.

 

All he feels is an overwhelming sense of calm as his eyes return to the dragon, still feigning sleep, apparently. “You communicate telepathically?”

 

Never let it be said that curiosity isn’t always his first instinct. The smart remarks come when he knows everything.

 

 _More or less,_ the voice whispers.  It sounds old, like Steve telling stories of the war, but even older.  Like a voice emanating from the deepest bowels of time.  _It is more efficient than spoken communication. I direct my thoughts at you, and I can sense your own.  It is your mind supplying the words._

 

“Swell.” He’s so deep in shock he’s acting like this is almost normal.  “Can you do this with any human?”

 

_No. It takes time to learn to feel.  You are a special one.  But before I go further, you must make a choice._

 

“Which is?”

 

_Leave. Turn back.  None of us will stop you or block you way.  Leave and return to your life.  Or stay, and learn of things that will forever change your world._

 

It’s wealth of information. It’s not the only one, but they are not keeping him hostage.  He is free to leave.  But Tony has always been a slave to his own impulses.  And to learn has always been the foremost one.

 

Tony studies the still creature carefully.

 

“Just how would it forever change my world?”

 

_You have reached the place where you will find the answers you seek. Of yourself.  But you understand how dangerous knowledge can be.  The choice is up to you._

 

Dragons. Dragons hold the answers he has come for.  What are they, some sort of mythical paternity testing facility?  But it is more than that.  He can tell.  The real son of Howard and Maria Stark was created with alien intervention.  Why can’t dragons tell Tony where he came from?

 

But does he really want to know? Does he?  He knows better than most the burden of knowledge.  It’s not always good to know things.  God, it’s downright awful some of the time.  But this is an addiction he could never hope to kick.  He thrives best while unraveling the secrets of the universe.  It’s not good for him, but he can’t _not_ keep learning.  It’s his role in the world.  To enlighten.

 

And between safety and adventure? He will always choose adventure.

 

“I don’t think I have a choice.”

 

The creature lets out a growl that reverberates through the chamber, its fine acoustics making the sound vibrate a hundred times over in his mind. This is laughter.

 

The dragon lifts its head like an undulating ribbon, neck frill puffing out and antennae perking up. It turns in Tony’s direction, and opens its eyes.

 

And Tony sees his own staring back at him.

 

Aside from their slitted nature, the eyes that regard him are the precise shade of deep blue that Tony sees whenever he can muster a look in the mirror.

 

Answers. And all he has right now are questions.

 

 _If you will accompany me, we may find some nourishment for you,_ the creature offers, rising onto clawed feet, the ripples of its body showing off the glinting metallic scales.

 

Tony feels his stomach gurgle.

 

“Sure. What do I call you?”

 

The dragon cocks its head, and Tony now feels the cluster of thoughts that enters unformed but which his brain converts to English. _Gold,_ but it doesn’t seem right. _Zoloto._   Perfect. _Our names do not translate to human languages very well, but I will answer to your Russian interpretation._

 

“You can call me Tony.”

 

Zoloto cocks its head more. _I would prefer to refer to you by your real name._

 

“That _is_ my real name.”  But he realizes that’s wrong.  Dragons have no care for the names on legal documents.  “Or it’s David.  I don’t know.”

 

 _It is Precious One._ And wow, that’s painful.  As if he’s ever been precious to anyone. _Dragotsennyy._

 

 

 

There are no windows in the place, so Tony surmises that they must be in caves carved deep in the mountains. The floors, walls, and ceilings are made of similar smooth stone underneath their decorations, and while it is cold, they are insulated from the worst of the Russian winter.  Gazing at Zoloto’s thick scales, Tony realizes they must not be bothered much by the weather.

 

 _I apologize for the chill, but we have quite efficient bodily heat reserves, so we do not build our homes with too much consideration to human visitors_ , Zoloto directs at him. _Soon I will show you your quarters, and hopefully you will find something that will keep you warm._

 

“Trust me, this is fine,” Tony says, rubbing his hands over his upper arms to stimulate circulation. “This isn’t anywhere near the worst cold I’ve seen.”  He had woken with his head coverings, remaining mitten, over and undercoat gone, but his thermal pants, shirt, and snow boots are more than enough to keep him thawed.  Before they left Zoloto's chamber, Tony had removed his gauntlet and had left it with the rest of the armor, because he can't really afford not to trust Zoloto.  She could probably eat him in several bites.  He still finds he misses the warmth of  the gauntlet, and the security it gives him.  It will take some time from his hands to adjust, but he’s certain they will.

 

There isn’t anything he can put on that will eradicate the chill deep in his bones.

 

“So, who are you? What is this place?”

 

_I am the matriarch of the Steelscales. It is one of many shells of dragons in the world.  We are connected to the land.  These mountains have been our home for a very long time._

 

“Shell? Like a family or clan or something?”

 

_You could call it that._

 

Zoloto guides him into another large room, this one with what looks to be several whole roast sheep carcasses laid out on a platform. A neat pile of bones at one end has been picked clean.  She flaps her tail against a cupboard.  _Eat. There should be some human dining implements in there._

 

Tony unearths a wooden platter and some carving tools. Not the neatest thing to eat with, but it’ll do for now.  Zoloto lies down and lounges on the floor, like she did in the room where they awoke as Tony saws off a portion of rib meat.  He eats quickly, finding himself famished and not in the mood to question if dragons ethically source their meat.

 

Zoloto waits patiently for him to finish. _Have you had enough? The mountains are rough to travel._

 

He wipes is now-greasy fingers on his thick pants.  “I’m fine right now. Tell me more about . . . everything.”

 

_What would you like to know?_

 

“How do you stay hidden? _Why_ are you hidden?  You say we . . . are there others?  Just, gimme a primer.”

 

 _Well,_ Zoloto begins thoughtfully.  _It is just better for us to remain hidden. For many centuries, we allowed ourselves to be seen, but we always have kept largely to ourselves.  That distance brewed fear, desire to hunt, worship.  So many things.  There was no decision made to “hide”, per se, but we just withdrew more and more, and by the time we’d realized we’d done it, it was done.  We’re better off in the long run, I’d wager.  Humans are pleased to think themselves the dominate species, and in many ways they are.  There are not many of us, whereas there are over seven billion humans and growing, and their firepower only gets better.  We are better off the way we are._

 

It does make sense.   Humans can’t usually stand each other, let alone something else.  “How old are you?”

 

_We do not follow the rigors of years, and even if we did, many of us were born long before most humans knew to follow dates. But we can live many centuries.  The oldest I know was hatched in Egypt a while before its fall to the Macedonians.  I was hatched sometime during what is now known as the Kievan Rus’, and spent my Humainty in a small village there with my human parents._

 

“‘Humanity’? What’s that?  You can turn human?”

 

_Dragons are born as humans. Hatched from shells, but within are human infants.  We do not raise our young; they are instead given away to humans to be raised.  If, and only if, they search out their origins, then they are taught of their true nature._

 

Drakovich.

 

Son of the dragon.

 

Zoloto sees his thoughts, and nods. _You have noticed I never called_ you _human._

 

“I’m a dragon.” Zoloto nods again.  He crumples, laughing hard enough to make his ribs hurt.  “Would you believe that’s not the weirdest thing that someone’s ever told me?”

 

 _You know it is true._ And he does.  It’s like something deep within him has been sleeping, and tells him to accept this.  For some reason, he does.  Maybe his mind has finally given up and quit.

 

“Okay, so many questions, but I’m sure you knew that.”

 

_I would not expect anything less. We have nothing but time._

 

“First off: how do you turn in to humans? Are dragons some special offshoot of humans?  Why does my blood test as human?”

 

_It’s a mysterious relationship, one we do not pretend to understand. Some theorize it is some quirk of evolution, others guess we were planted here to protect the inhabitants of this planet, and our creator wanted us to understand the humans better.  Who knows._

 

“Is there some sort of benefit to growing up in ignorance of your heritage?”

 

_It teaches what you would call “humility.” We are wise, because we understand limitations and fragility.  The period spent living as a human is called a Humanity.  You explore, learn, and eventually, disappear.  It is all hinged on phasing between the bodies of human and dragon.  After your first phase, your body can remain as a human for much of the time, but once we have lived our Humanities, most of us choose to revert to the dragon body unless we need to pass for human._

 

“Can you –“ Tony wets his lips. “Can you show me?”

 

_Not at this time. Clothing does not meld with our hides, if you catch my meaning._

 

He does.  He's been caught naked more than most people.

 

"What about my parents?  Where are they?"

 

_You are the son of Vyklyuchatelput and Burrasca of the Grotteumero.  Vyklyuchatelput was my sister._

 

“So, are you my family? Or the Grotteumero?”

 

_You may choose. But traditionally, you are a member of your mother’s family.  So, here, with us._

 

His mouth is dry as he asks.  “Is she . . . is she here?”

 

 _Sadly, no_.  Zoloto hangs her head.  _We used to say Vyklyuchatelput was the luckiest, for she could easily follow you as you grew. Her heart bled pride at your brilliance, but ached to have you with her.  Your disappearance so many years ago broke her.  Her precious child, gone forever, never knowing her.  Her mourning killed her before you were revealed to be alive._

 

It’s fitting, he thinks. He couldn’t save one mother, and he killed the other.

 

“My father? Just curious.”

 

_Disappeared several years ago. No one has been able to find him.  We believe the worst._

 

Tony is quiet for a moment, contemplating. There goes the vague hope he'd entertained of being united with his birth parents.  It was a wild dream, but he’s had those before.  But _knowing_ does give him some small comfort.  “Thank you for telling me this.”

 

_As Vyklyuchatelput was my sister, please accept me as a guide in her stead._

 

"Guide?  For like learning dragon-y things?"

 

Zoloto's snout wrinkles in amusement.  _Yes, as you call them "dragon-y things".  I would like to remind you that you may leave if that is your wish.  You came here looking for answers as to your origins, which you have received.  If you do not with to continue, I will fully understand. You have far more of a human life than most of us do when we return to our shells.  Would you like to leave?  
_

 

"I'm sorry, but that's against my nature."

 

 _Yes it is_ Zoloto directs at him, full of satisfaction.

 

 

 

She guides him to a human-sized room, with a low ceiling, bed covered in thick blankets and furs, and a large burning hearth.  All of his possessions, pack, MCWs, clothing, even the mitten he threw off, are piled neatly at the center of the small room.  Someone has also moved the armor case here, and it gives Tony more confidence they aren't holding him so that they can make an entrée of him.

 

_We are familiar with your exploits as Iron Man, so I deemed it best to allow you to wake up with it near you.  As a sign of trust if nothing more._

 

"Thank you for that.  I appreciate it."

 

_I shall leave you to get settled._

 

He has a good poke around.  The bed doesn't seem to have a mattress; it's really just a mound of blankest in the shape of a bed.  His spine may not love it, but it is better than falling asleep on the ground.  There are chests stacked around the perimeters of the room hold an assortment of clothing and pretty much everything he could wish for.

 

So, he supposes, now is the time for the existential crisis.

 

It doesn't come.

 

It should.  A dragon has told him that he is a dragon too.  That isn't something most people would just _accept_.  He doesn't really know why he has.  _Feeling_ like it's truth is really faulty reasoning.  He's a logical adult.  Maybe his past with surreal shit allows him to just accept the dragons' existence.  He has met dragon-y things before, and much stranger things besides.  But this is like a Skrull telling he's been a Skrull the entire time.

 

But it's not.  Because he knows all about Skrulls and he knows next to nothing about dragons, only what Zoloto has told him and he's witnessed.

 

And maybe, not that he'd ever admit it to anyone _ever,_ but part of him _wants_ it to be true.

 

He'd made plenty of Anastasia jokes to himself, because _lost princess_ has the magic to make anyone feel special.  Not that being a dragon is the same as being a princess (many of his friends would say he has always been a princess, and you won't find him arguing), but the feeling that you're special and that you belong somewhere else, where you have no problems and people who love you for you and you can be _happy._

 

He could still be hallucinating.

 

Please, he thinks.  If I'm hallucinating, Steve usually shows up sometime.  Show me Steve.

 

He can picture Steve down to the tiniest detail, from the two moles at the nape of his neck and the wispy straw-colored hair that covers them, to the small chip in his lower left premolar that the serum couldn't fix.  He knows pretty much everything there is to know about Steve's appearance.

 

But Steve isn't standing in front of him, no matter how much he wills it.

 

Zoloto returns with a large wooden box held in her jaw, with she lays down gently on the floor. She gestures for Tony to open it. 

 

Inside are scales that look like they came from the back of a dragon. Edged in gold like Zoloto’s, but with a fiery red instead of green.

 

 _These were my sister’s_ , Zoloto tells him solemnly.  _We keep the scales of our loved ones to remember them. I will not presume you wish to replace your human mother, but do know you were her joy._

 

The scales are cool, and clack softly as Tony sifts through them. They’re carbon-based, but hard like steel.  So the family name is fitting.  Tony selects a single scale, one that would have been located on the spinal ridge.  It is large, about the size of a half-dollar and shield-shaped.  Escutcheon, not like the circular ones Steve uses.  He closes his fingers around it, and lets his eyes slide closed.  He may be imagining it, but a phantom warmth emanates from its depths and covers his palm.

 

“Thank you,” he says, softly.

 

 

 

There is a point in the sky where it doesn’t matter what the temperature is on the ground, the cold of space will still dominate. He knows this, because he’s had to struggle with it, in both aeronautics and his suits. 

 

But he’s never felt it on his skin, without some metal shell protecting him, with a dozen dragons surrounding him.

 

Zoloto has assured him that his lungs are better than the average human’s, and he’ll be fine. And he is.

 

He’s never inhaled the crystallizing vapor of clouds before. It’s crisp and clear and burns his nose.

 

“Can we do that again?” he calls, and he feels Dikost’s eagerness. Tony has his legs hooked around the wing joints, and he feels them pull in as Dikost torpedoes back into the blanket of clouds. 

 

Water vapor fills his nose, and it tries freezing his hair, his beard, his eyebrows. He feels Dikost pull and maneuver his body in such a way that sends them in a series of spiraling loops through the thin, laden air.

 

“Now!” Tony shouts, and Dikost lets his wings spread and catch.  They smoothly glide up, breaking through the top of the cloud, and emerge in the midst of the shell.  The sun is pink and gold, too bright to look at, the air is too thin, and he is blinking icicles off his eyelashes, and Tony has never felt more alive. 

 

It never felt it like this in the suit.

 

 _This is what I am meant for,_ he thinks, _to fly._

 

 _You were_ echoes back from other minds.

 

 

 

He loses track of time.

 

Spring comes, or so he believes. It’s bit hard to tell from where they are.  Snow is a constant thing, at this elevation.

 

Today, Zoloto and Dragotsennyy are on a windblown plateau. Centuries of harsh winds have blasted the stone smooth and have prevented too much icy buildup.  Zoloto lounges along the rocky wall, as Dragotsennyy slowly paces the ledge that overlooks miles and miles of snowy mountains and valleys.

 

He’s coming to consider this one of the happier periods of his life. Every day is full of new things to learn and discover.  Zoloto has taken charge of his tutelage as she promised, and he is endlessly grateful for her guidance.  It makes him ache for the mother he never knew, but he feels her warmth when he thinks of her and when the shell tells him stories of her.

 

He feels bad comparing dragons to humans, but finds it impossible not to. The shell is a family, in every sense of the word, but is also like a group of compatriots and of course the best of friends.  Dikost, Zoloto’s son, treats him like a brother.  Together, Dikost and Dragotsennyy explore the Urals and Siberia.  They fly well together, and Dikost is endlessly enthusiastic about finding adventure.

 

It makes Dragotsennyy remember, and it pains him.

 

With Zoloto and Dikost and the rest of the shell, he learns the life of a dragon. The millennia-long lifespan, the different shells of the world, their place in the Earth’s order.

 

He learns that dragons consider themselves guardians of the Earth, and do their best to respond to the threats the planet faces. When Dragotsennyy asks why their involvement isn’t known to humans, Zoloto responds with a sly _That is the goal._

 

There have been many mysterious phenomena that he learns are due to draconic involvement. Legends and myths tell more of history than humans know.  But it is more dangerous than ever in the age of video and photography.  They know the best times to travel near human population centers, and the best ways to go about it.  The ability to phase into human forms do wonders.  Still, there are enough sightings of UFO’s to keep them careful.  (And yes, the Loch Ness Monster is a prankster from a Scottish shell.)

 

Nowadays, dragons largely keep to themselves and their shells, tending their hoards.  Dragotsennyy _loves_ hoards.  They aren't just made up of eighty bazillion coins.  No, dragons hoard whatever they see as valuable.  Most of the hoards he has seen (because while dragons are protective of them, they are also proud) are composed of books and art.  Though there are plenty of shiny things.

 

Thankfully, dragons aren’t really “magical”. Some of them have an innate talent for it, but it isn’t something that all of them are skilled at or are required to want to pursue.  Zoloto does not push him when he says he has no love for magic.

 

What dragons _do_ have is the ability to breathe fire, chlorine gas, and the harmless tranquilizer Zoloto blasted him with on his first day in the mountains.  Which is awesome.  What would be more awesome is an explanation as to how, but he's just been teased that he might like to figure it out on his own.

 

But what that entails is based on the ability to phase, which he hasn't managed yet.

 

_Relax your mind.  You must be at peace will yourself._

 

"I'm _trying_ ," he gripes, pacing along the edge of the cliff, back and forth, back and forth.

 

 _I know you are_ Zoloto tells him, mirth in her tone.  _I am simply trying to remind you that you will not be able to force this.  It takes time.  Dikost spent several years coming to grips with himself enough to fly.  
_

 

"I get it, just . . . I'm not used to being bad at things."

 

 _You believe you are the first to feel that way._   He has sense enough to look abashed.  _Dragotsennyy, listen to me.  You are undeniably bright, and talented, even for one of us, but we have all  struggled with the same things.  It is not easy to give up the world they way you have always known it.  We are all curious, but terrified at what the new knowledge may bring all the same._

 

Dragonsennyy sits down on the ledge, booted feet dangling over the chasm-like drop into ice and rocks.

 

_You must be unweighted to fly. Your soul is not free.  You must free yourself if you are ever to fly._

 

“I managed to attain flight without you."

 

Zoloto bears her teeth and lets out a thunderous roar that is her version of a belly laugh. _You are right, Dragotsennyy. But you are still heavy.  You may not fly until you are light._

 

“Well, that’s the issue then. I’ll always be heavy.  The stuff I’ve seen . . . stuff I’ve done.  I can’t forget it all.”

 

_You mistake me. Those are things of the past.  They will not weigh your flight.  They make you.  But your present and future will weigh you.  You must lighten the load on your heart before you may take wing._

 

Zoloto stands, sighing.  _We will be done for the day._

 

 

 

He returns to his chamber, pensive.

 

Weight on his heart?  There are so many things that it could mean.  And they are all too painful to recall.

 

A dull sustained beep issues from the chest where he has the armor is stashed. A message.  Not blaring like it’s top priority, but insistent.

 

Curious, he stands and fishes the comm set from the mass of metal and tech. Voice message from Captain America, level three urgency.

 

He presses play.

 

 _“Tony.”_ It punches him through.  How long has it been since he last heard Steve’s voice?  He sounds tired.  _“I promised myself I wouldn’t contact you unless it was dire. It’s not, really, right now at least.  But – “_   A gush of static as Steve breathes out.  Dragotsennyy can see him running a frustrated hand through his hair.  _“We’ve got something that could be bad, if we let it develop. You’re the only one who can figure it out.  Trust me.  We’ve had all the brains looking at it, but they agree it’s a problem only you can solve.  I’m hesitant to share much more when I don’t know how secure you signal is.  Just –“_   Steve breaks himself away from the recording.  Steeling himself. _“We need you back._ I _need you back.”_

 

The recording ends.

 

 

 

 _Dragotsennyy_. _I thought you had retired for the night._

 

He stares down at his snow boots. “I got a transmission from home.  I need to go back.  I’m sorry.”

 

Zoloto projects her confusion. _Why are you sorry? You need not explain yourself to me.  You may leave at any time._

 

“I know. I just . . . I want to go, but at the same time want to stay.”

 

She curls her undulating body and beckons with a claw. Dragotsennyy moves to sit with her, letting his head fall back to rest against her scaly belly.  _You are torn. It is common.  You have discovered what you are.  But you are still in the midst of your Humanity.  You need not choose._

 

“I love you, but that’s not very helpful.”

 

Zoloto growls her laughter. _This is not about polarity, but what would be best for you. Would you like my opinion?_

 

“Please.”

 

_You should return to your Avengers. You need time to sort out the weight of your heart._

 

"But what is it?"

 

_I think you know._

 

Dragotsennyy - no, he's Tony - or is he both?  Or neither?  Or do names not matter?  He doesn't know.  He doesn't know, and the answers he wants aren't ones that can be proven.

 

He sits there, absorbing the warmth that comes from Zoloto's body, and the scale he now wears burns warm, and all Tony can feel is encouragement.

 

 

 

Snow crunches under his boots, and he jumps slightly in place to warm himself.  He isn't wearing as many layers as he usually would when going out, but he didn't want to say his goodbyes in the armor. 

 

_I will miss you Dragotsennyy.  Having you here dulls the pain of my sister's loss, for I see her brightness and freedom of spirit in you.  
_

 

_I just want to see your armor._

 

Zoloto snuffs at him. Dikost looks suitably ashamed.  _I will try to persuade Podatlivyy to visit you. My younger son is still in the midst of his Humanity.  He might be able to help you._

 

“Just tell him where to look me up."

 

_That I will._

 

Tony presses foreheads with the both of them one last time, before stepping away slightly to shed his outer clothing.  It isn't winter anymore, but the cold still gets to him.  Quickly, he activates it, and the metal folds around him for the first time in months.  Safe, his mind says.  Safe now.

 

 _Amazing_ Dikost remarks.

 

"I'll do what I can to keep in touch," he broadcasts through the speakers.

 

_Do.  Godspeed, Dragotsennyy._

 

He salutes them, and takes to the air.  Sets course for home.

 

 

 

Tony has wasted untold hours and money on developing the most sophisticated communications equipment and network for the Avengers. Built to withstand and survive any natural disaster, in any condition, in any corner of the Earth and a good many other places in the universe.

 

But Avengers will be Avengers, and sometimes it’s easiest to just follow the screams and fire.

 

“Look who’s back!” Carol shouts as she spots him, holding a three-hundred pound man in a bridal carry as she evacuates a building.

 

Tony switches himself into the party channel, and hears a chorus of cheerful greetings.

 

“What’ve I missed?” Tony asks as he circles the burning block, running scans to assess the structural integrity of the buildings. It quickly compiles with the scans Rhodey has already completed, isolating life forms and rating the damage.

 

 _“Some sort of fire-breathing gremlins or some shit. We were trying to flush them out, but they got spooked and Thor chased them in to a portal of some sort, but not before they set the place on fire.  I’m really trying hard not to bother understanding,”_ Rhodey yells over the noise of creaking iron. _“I’d hug you, man, but we’re busy right now.”_

 

“Where do you need me?” Tony slips easily back into the routine of a basic crisis.

 

 _“You did a flyover?”_ Steve huffs.

 

“Yes. The residential tower is fine, so long as everyone takes cover from shattering glass.  The parking garage is a bust, but no one’s inside.  Stores evac’ed?  Then it’s the office building that takes priority.”

 

 _“Flyers, follow Iron Man’s lead. Is the fire department here yet?”_   Several voices call _“Yes”_ just as jets of water begin arching through the air. _“Ground, relay intel to the first responders.”_

 

“I’m sending them the scans now,” Tony shouts as he smashes feet-first through the window of a conference room. Half a dozen people are cowering under the table, one woman trying to get a wheezing man calm down enough to breathe.  “I can take you two at a time,” he announces as he activates the speakers and gets back to what he knows best.

 

 

 

EMTs are setting up nearby, so they’re swamped for a while, still scanning the wreckage for hot spots and getting the wounded over to the triage center. They’re lucky today.  Several have critical injuries, but nothing that is impossible to treat or will leave them with permanent damage.  Most are scraped up and a little bruised, with mild smoke inhalation.  No one here is going to die today.

 

Steve is helping an EMT with a puffing middle-aged asthmatic’s oxygen mask, but keeps glancing over at Tony with a look that always means “we will have words later” but for the time being, he’s in the clear.

 

Carol strolls up to him, bearing a warm bottle of water, which Tony guzzles greedily. She’s smiling, but there is a pinched look in her eyes.  “Glad to see you back.”

 

“It’s good to be back,” Tony agrees breathlessly after the downs the entire bottle.

 

“So.” She crosses her arms and attempts to stand tall and imposing, but that really doesn’t work very well on him while he’s in the armor.  “Where have you been?”

 

“Where do you think I’ve been?”

 

She ponders briefly, before launching into the truth. “Most everyone thinks you went looking for your birth parents.”

 

“ _Most_ everyone?”

 

“Steve doesn’t really want to believe it.”

 

Tony looks back over at Steve, who is very obviously not looking at him.

 

“So.” Carol clears her throat.  “Were you?”

 

“Yes.” There isn’t any reason to hide the truth.  Well, a portion of it.  “I tracked down my mother’s family in Ural Mountains.  My parents are dead, but my aunt was really welcoming.  It was nice, but I had to come back.”

 

Carol’s eyebrows are further up her forehead than he’d ever imagined possible. “You’re Russian?”

 

“Half, but da, comrade.” She punches his shoulder for his trouble, but it makes no impact while he’s in the suit.

 

"Watch it.  Soon you're gonna have Bucky and Natasha trying to induct you into their strange rituals."  Her eyes are shining a tad. “But really, that’s wonderful, Tony.  I know this has been difficult for you, but I am so happy for you.”  Her voice is lower than usual as she reaches out and squeezes his elbow affectionately.  She straightens, and nods to something over Tony’s shoulder, just as he hears a very familiar “ _ahem_.”

 

Tony turns, and there’s Steve, brow furrowed, jaw set, arms crosses, triceps bulging. He looks firm and serious, and Tony opens his mouth – to say what, he doesn’t know – but Steve cuts him off with a crushing hug.

 

“Glad to have you back, Shellhead,” Steve murmurs lowly in his ear, and an all-too familiar heat pools deep in his gut. He does his best to ignore it, and hugs Steve back tightly.

 

 

 

Later, they’re tucking into a spread of pizzas when Steve rounds on him.

 

“So,” Steve swallows from where he has his slices double stacked, “how was your trip?”

 

“If you’re asking if I’m back for good, then the answer is yes.”

 

“Is it?” Steve’s tone is hard to discern, like he desperately wants to beg Tony to stay, but won’t.

 

Tony lets scalding cheese scorch his throat in his haste to answer. “For the time being, which is what the answer always is.  I took a break, went to figure some stuff out.  I’m back now.”

 

“You’re not going back?”

 

“I will be going back, but it won’t be for as long and I’ll tell you when I’m going.”

 

“Why?”

 

His temper has run short. “Because I’m allowed to visit my family?  Do I need to get permission for that, huh, Steve?”

 

It’s low, he knows, but for some reason, he’s exhausted. Exhausted by their entire relationship.  He doesn’t know why it’s hitting him now, but he’s sick of it.  As much as he’s always admired Steve, how much he loves working with him, the pressure of it begins to grate after a while.

 

As different as they are, they’ve always been similar in other ways. That is why they’ve always worked.  They fit together well enough, but contrast enough to allow friction that keeps them in check.  No one can argue with Steve the way Tony can. 

 

And now one of the biggest things they have in common, having only the Avengers for family, is no longer applicable.

 

Steve’s voice is deathly quiet. “I’m just concerned.  I – Tony, you’re you.  Don’t lose track of who _you_ are.”

 

“I’ll take that into consideration, Mufasa.”

 

The familiar lines of Steve’s face consort into frustration and rage. He starts shouting.  “That’s not what I mean!  Stop shrugging it off!  Your parentage doesn’t _matter_.  You’ve been through so much that made you into the man you are today.  Alone.  Or with us.  It’s fine to want to find your family, but – “

 

“But what?”

 

“ _They weren’t there!_ You made yourself!  Did you go off in search of them to find _yourself_ , Tony?  ‘Cause that’s not where you’re gonna find it.  Don’t _lose_ that.”

 

Steve is desperate, his eyes searing and searching. Trying to make Tony understand.

 

“ _I_ was there, for parts of it,” Steve adds like an afterthought.

 

And he was.  More than anyone, so it sometimes seems.  Steve at least understands, most of the time.

 

When he can be made to see a different perspective.  Which has become harder as time has gone on.

 

“Look, Steve. I can’t explain it.  Well, I could.  But you would never believe me.”

 

“Try me.” It’s earnest, but Tony knows better than to fall for it.

 

“It’s fairly ridiculous. Crazy.  I’m not entirely sure I didn’t hallucinate the entire thing."

 

Steve is losing his patience.  "Look, if you don't trust me - "

 

"Don't you dare say that.  You - you always _do_ that, twist things so _I'm_ the bad one - "

 

"So I'm the bad person?"

 

Tony points a jagged finger at his face.  " _No._   But like that, _exactly_ like that.  I knew you'd do this.  I don't have to tell you _everything_ , Steve.  But me not telling you every little detail isn't me lying or a reason to distrust me.  And before you cut in, because I see you opening your mouth, I need to get better about doing world change-y things in secret, I know, I get it.  I'm working on it.  But my mother's family isn't any of your business.  I'm going to tell you.  It's just - " Tony presses a hand over his collarbone, where, hidden beneath his shirt, is his mother’s scale on a piece of leather cord.  "It's a lot to adjust to.  Mind bending.  I don't know what I'm doing."

 

"Then why won't you let me help you?"

 

"Because I have to do this alone."

 

Steve just seems sad and a little wistful.  "You always say that."

 

 

 

“What are you doing?”

 

Tony looks up from a pile if miscellaneous wire and sees he has guests. Bearing bribes.  Carol is carrying a giant thermos, and Rhodey a pastry box.

 

He glances down. His lap is full of wire, half-stripped so he can see the copper glinting beneath the plastic covering.  At his feet, there are boxes of nails, jars assorted bolts and screws, none of them sorted by size.  Manual tools and assorted drill bits, placed with their cases open.  Larger pieces of machinery, things lifted from the bowels of assorted vehicles and other places.  Computers and phones and tablets are piled around, filling in the cracks.

 

It already forms a sort of lump-shaped pile, covering an empty corner at the back of his workshop.

 

“God, man, are you a hoarder now too?” Rhodey asks with a light tone, but worry is steeped in the words. Worry that he’s going crazy.  Again.

 

“Um. Maybe.”  He unceremoniously shoves the pile of wire away, turns to stand, and hits is foot on a 33 1/3 RPM turntable.  Swearing, he picks it up and gently places it on the pile of wire.

 

Carol is giggling when Tony makes his way over to them. “What’re you laughing at?” he grumbles, but she just hands him the thermos, laughing the entire time. 

 

Rhodey sets the pastry box down as Tony screws the top off and smells strong coffee. He foregoes the small cup in the cap, and drinks directly from the thermos.  Rhodey just sighs, shakes his head, and roots through a drawer for a pair of scissors.  Carol is bowed over, wheezing.

 

“What’s her problem?”

 

Rhodey sighs as he snips the string closing the box. “You don’t know how long we were watching you, do you?”

 

Tony fishes a pineapple Danish from the box. “No.  How long?”

 

“About ten minutes.” Tony winces.

 

Zoloto had warned him that he might start hoarding. The dragon kind, not the A&E kind.  He looks over at the pile.  Mostly tech or something connected.  Of course.  He makes a note to look into getting a vault built to hide it from everyone so they don’t worry.

 

Carol recovers enough to slap him on the shoulder, right as he’s taking a bite. She wraps an arm around his neck and hangs off him limply as he hacks.  “You were just so _intent_ on it.  It was hilarious.  Rhodey, he’s fine.  Stop fussing.”

 

“Sure.” He rubs at his throat.  “Not that I don’t love you two, but is there any reason you’re here?  I have important . . . things to do.”  He waves a hand in the direction of the pile.

 

“Steve asked me to come get you. You need to be debriefed on what you missed.  Rhodey tagged along because he is like a baby ducking who lost his mother when you’re gone,” Carol supplies as she helps herself to an apple spice donut hole.

 

“Oh. When's the meeting?”

 

“ASAP.”

 

“Ugh.”

 

“I’m not a baby ducking. I’m a badass,” Rhodey mutters dourly.

 

“Mm-hm,” Carol answers, patting his head as she shoves what looks like eight donut holes in her face.

 

 

 

The map that is projected on the wall is incomplete, but if it’s what Tony recognizes, it is very bad.

 

“Just what am I looking at here?”

 

Steve sighs and strolls around the table, manipulating the map so it turns into a 3-D hologram of the globe. Irregular green shapes overlapping with and surrounded by red triangular markers are scattered across the planet.  “A bunch of intel was uncovered after a raid on one of Zemo’s hideouts.  He’s researching something.  He doesn’t know much, or at least didn’t record much.  But the red markings have dates and data files attached – “ Steve taps a few, bringing up news reports and blurry night sky images “ – which are about UFO, meteorite, et cetera sightings.  Our best guess is that he was trying to place and track down whatever caused the abnormalities.”

 

Tony stares balefully at the gently pulsing green field located in the heart of the Ural Mountain Range. “Any guesses for what the green is?”

 

“The logs basically say that it’s the search area for the bases where the UFOs originated from or whatever,” Carol tells him as she pours what looks like half a bottle of creamer into her styrofoam cup of coffee. “The search perimeters have been narrowed with time, but we don’t think he’s found anything yet.  And it's a huge area.”

 

“So what’s he doing? Naked eye search?”

 

Steve shrugs, then crosses his arms in the way that Tony loves, the one where the sleeves of his tee shirt look ready to shred. “We have no idea.  We _think_ he might be working with satellite imagery, but the vast majority of these sightings are at night, so he’s not really finding much.  We’ve requested some of the brains to look into it, but they haven’t found anything.”

 

“And that’s where I come in.”

 

Steve smiles softly and nods, a little sad. Tony doesn’t think he is supposed to see the look on Steve’s face, but whatever.  “Zemo’s getting more technologically advanced.  Bad for us, but also good.  Because he’s still light years behind you.”  There’s a tiny bit of pride there, and something within Tony preens.

 

“Let me guess: you want me on top of tracking him down, hack the satellites and take them off line, just take away his electronic pathways.”

 

“That, and help us get to the bottom of whatever he’s searching for,” Carol tells him. “Even if we cut off his avenues, he’s still after . . . whatever’s there.  We don’t know what it is, but if we can get to it before him . . . .”  She looks over at him and freezes.  “You know what he’s looking for, don’t you?”

 

“No, I – “ but he can’t lie in the face of a double captain glare. “Alright.  Yes.  I think I know what he’s looking into.  I can’t really say what it is right now, but it’s not good, whatever he’s planning.  I have some faith that he doesn’t know much about _what_ he’s looking for, but . . . he’s planning something.  Awful.”

 

Steve purses his lips like he wants to argue, but bites his tongue. He’s trying, Tony realizes.  He doesn’t want Tony lying to him, so he’s not pushing him to the extent where he has to.  It makes Tony just want to crawl into Steve’s arms and spill his guts.  “Alright.  I guess we’ll leave it to you.  Anything that we can help with?”

 

“I need to know more about what he knows. Got an intel raid in the works?”  Steve nods and pulls up a map on the glass tabletop.  “We’re shooting blind here, so I just want to know as much as possible before we go deeper.”

 

“Wait.” Carol slams her open palms of the table, sending her cup of creamer-with-a-dash-of-coffee spilling over the table into her lap.  Tony winces.  Carol ignores it.  “You.”  She points at Steve.  “Why aren’t you grilling him?”  She points at Tony.

 

Steve answers her gaze evenly. “Would you like to try?”

 

Something alights in her eyes, and she jumps up, scrambling for her phone. “Sorry, I just remembered that I have brunch plans with pretty much everyone that’s not you two.  Toodles!”  She’s texting furiously before she leaves the table, obliviously dripping creamer everywhere.

 

As the door slams shit behind her, Tony turns back to Steve. “Why aren’t we invited to brunch?”

 

Steve just wrinkles his nose and says _“Toodles”_ in a mystified tone.

 

 

 

They don’t talk about their fight-slash-confession confrontation the day he returned.

 

Steve is still rather tense around Tony, but doesn’t bring anything up. He seems content, for the time being, to ignore it.

 

Tony knows he should bring it up. He knows better than to let this fester.  But he also knows that without anything to sway him, he and Steve will continue to drift in circles, gnawing away at the tender bits of their relationship until they’re both just open wounds.

 

They’ve gone down that path before. Tony would never like to see a repeat.

 

Steve scowls down at the compound. “I don’t like this.”

 

Tony agrees. “Something’s . . . wrong, here.”

 

Steve nods and picks up his binoculars again.

 

The hill where they are cloistered overlooks a dull concrete complex in Manitoba. The team’s orders are to make havoc so Tony can get inside and dig up whatever Zemo’s hiding.  Routine.

 

Tony still doesn’t like it.

 

There’s something sinister here, the dragon humming at the base of his skull whispers. Something bad.

 

A shriek of laughter from his six jars him out of it.

 

The rest of the team has been acting . . . oddly. There’s a lot of whispering and giggling and glancing over their shoulders at the pair of them.  Tony has heard whispers of a betting pool, and “making sure Mom and Dad stay together for more than the sake of the children.”  He doesn’t know what to make of it.

 

Carol bounces up to them, wearing the massive grin she’s worn since she left for her mysterious brunch. “Are you going to sit around all day, or are you going to let me blow shit up?”

 

Steve relents. “Iron Man, if you can, disable the electric fences while you’re in there.”

 

“Got it, Cap.”

 

“The rest of you,” he calls over at the group of children the world relies on to save it, “let’s make this a smooth as possible. We’ll get Tony in, and we fall back as soon as he re-emerges.  Quick in-and-out, got it?”

 

Bucky looks like he’s about to cry. “You _really_ can’t see yourselves, can you?”

 

Carol starts laughing, and they have to stall another ten minutes after everyone except he and Steve come down with the giggles.

 

“What is _with_ you all recently?” Steve asks, though it just brings on another round of laughter.

 

 

 

Tony is paging through the images that he has examined a thousand times, and wonders just how deplorable humans can be.

 

He never really understood humans.  But there's a reason.

 

His phone buzzes and he picks it up blindly, still staring at the pictures of gutted carcasses.

 

_“Mr. Stark? You have a visitor.”_

 

“Who?”

 

_“He says his name is . . . Ilya Drakovich Teterya. He’s not in any of your contacts, but insisted that you would speak to him.  Should I have him – “_

 

“Send him up.”

 

 

 

Ilya is a nuclear engineer. Adopted at the age of five by an older Ukrainian couple, who made sure he went to the best schools and pursued an occupation that he was both good at and was important in the grand scheme of the world.  Tony has heard of him, even read a few of his papers, but their paths have never directly crossed.  The closest they’ve been is attending several conferences at the same time.  He divides his time between schools in Berlin and Kiev, and spends the rest working on behalf of the UN.

 

Ilya is also Podatlivyy.

 

“Mother asked me if I would be willing to visit with you, to see how you have been doing. I apologize for not dropping by while you were with the shell, but my work takes me around the world for long stretches of time,” Ilya says in his light Ukrainian accent, and Tony can tell he has tamed it over the years.  “I hope you will excuse me, but I think you can understand my position?”  His lips quirk in a way that reminds Tony of Zoloto’s snout before he takes a long draught of his coffee.

 

“Yeah, I get you.” Tony shifts in his chair.

 

“Something troubles you,” Ilya tells him.

 

“Lots of somethings, but yes.”

 

“I have come to do my best to help you in any way you might see fit. Is there anything I can do?”

 

Tony pulls up the files he has discovered and passes them to Ilya wordlessly.

 

Ilya is quiet as he flips through the gigs upon gigs of pictures of dissected dragon corpses. Reports, trying to explain the creatures.  Guesses at what they can be used for.  Formulas for tranquilizers.

 

“Well,” Ilya says after a while, passing the tablet back. “I appears the only things they were able to discern were our physiology and whereabouts.”  He looks ill.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“Do not be. We needed to know.  As soon as I leave here, I am going to contact all the shells I can and tell them to be on high alert.  Thank you for sharing this with me.”

 

“One of them is my father,” Tony says quietly.

 

“You can tell.” It’s not a question.

 

“Yes.”

 

They lapse into uneasy silence.

 

“I sense I do not have long here, so I am afraid I must be blunt. My mother worries about what ails you.”

 

“What’s her diagnosis?”

 

“You are heartsick.”

 

He stays silent.

 

“It will keep you from flying.”

 

Tony continues to stare at his fingers.

 

“Tony, listen to me: you are a trailblazer, are you not? Mother has done her best to teach you about our lives, but you do understand it need not be _your_ life?  Things change.  No one will force you to return to the shell for eternity.”

 

“But part of me _wants_ to.”

 

“What does the other part want?”

 

He sighs and lets his face fall into his hands. “To stay Iron Man and an Avenger.”

 

“Life is long. It does no good having many regrets.”

 

The door smashes open, and Steve in full Cap regalia enters, huffing.

 

“Sorry for breaking this up, but Zemo’s making his move. Tony, we need to be gone _now.”_

 

Ilya picks up his coat. “I will excuse myself.  I have calls to make.  I hope you will consider what I have told you, Tony.  Do not be a stranger, cousin.”  He claps Tony on the back, then sees his way out.

 

Steve is frowning at him. “He’s your cousin?”

 

“Long story. You said something about Zemo?”

 

“Oh, right. Suit up.”

 

 

 

“Captain America! Welcome, welcome!  To the place of your demise!” Zemo calls as Tony lets Steve down at the site.  The crazy German has commandeered one of the decrepit factories in Queens for today’s spectacle.

 

“Can it, Zemo. What’re you up to?” Steve calls over the sound of Carol preemptively smashing all the remaining windows for some reason.  Maybe to prevent injuries if someone gets chucked through a window today.  It happens often enough.  The henchmen circling the perimeter are squealing and running for cover from the shards of glass.  Or maybe she’s just messing with them.  That also happens often enough.

 

“Ah, but you will never see it, now will you?” Zemo gestures wildly with his sword.  “You will die, and most of your friends will die, and I will fly from this place on the back of my very own dragon mount!”

 

Tony scans the setup. They’re in a warehouse area.  Aside from the green-suited men taking fire from both the aerial and ground Avengers, and their mystery-blasters-of-the-week, he and Steve have Zemo to themselves.  The Baron himself stands on a platform with minimal equipment, a massive gun of some sort strapped to his side, with a reservoir full of a grayish liquid and large needle to administer it.

 

The hiss of flamethrowers begins as the henchmen begin aiming for . . . nothing. Fire spreads across the rotted beams of the building.

 

“Cap, it’s a trap, we gotta go,” Tony murmurs urgently. Steve glances back at him, scorn in his eyes, but he doesn’t know.  He doesn’t know.

 

“Iron Man, he’s insane.”

 

“Insane enough to burn the building down on top of us?”

 

That makes Steve pause. “Okay, Zemo.  I’m just going to say this once.  Call off your goons or you’ll just get us all killed.  Fight us like a man.”

 

Smoke begins curling from the beam above them. Tony spots plastic explosives and detonators strapped to the wood.

 

“Steve.”

 

Steve just raises his shield. “Last warning.”

 

Beneath the mask, Zemo appears to be smiling. He fingers a small black remote in his palm.  “I must say, it is tempting . . . . “

 

“Steve. Move.  Now.”

 

He doesn’t. Tony alters his stance, calculating how much his armor can take.  It should hold.  Should.

 

“What’s your grand plan?” Steve shouts over the crackle for flames. “You always have one.  Tell me.”

 

Zemo raises the remote and presses the single button.

 

Tony is in the air and has Steve slung across the floor before he can blink. The explosion destroys only a couple of feet of timber, but sends the rest careening down, pinning him.

 

“Tony!” Steve calls, running back.

 

“Wunderbar! Iron Man, you make my quest far easier!” Zemo cheers as he approaches leisurely, casually drawing the tranq gun.

 

“What the hell are you on about?” Steve screams at Zemo as he yanks at the fallen beam.

 

“Oh, your friend has not told you? I must credit him for my grand discovery.  You see, I once met a man who looked much like Tony Stark, and I told him this.  And the man smiled with the pride only a father can have for his son.  Then he made his mistake.  I tried to apprehend him, and he fought.  And do you know what he turned into?”

 

“Don’t say it,” Tony groans.

 

“A _dragon_ , Captain America.  So I have studied legends and followed stories.  Of orphaned children that go away to find their families and never return, and if they do, their hearts are far away.  Seeing Tony Stark disappear simply set the ball rolling.”

 

Steve’s fingers are still curled around the beam, but they have gone limp has he stares at Zemo in horror.

 

“Steve,” Tony croaks. “Don’t listen to him.  He doesn’t know anything.”

 

“Is it true?”

 

Steve’s voice is hard and blunt, laced with pain. Because he thinks Tony is lying and hiding things from him again.  Tony has seen Steve betrayed and murderous, but maybe this is the lie that shatters him.

 

“It is,” and Steve gapes and turns away. “I couldn’t tell you yet, I couldn’t prove it!  I can’t phase.  But _as soon as I can_ –“

 

But Steve is shaking his head, like he’s given up on trying to comprehend anything anymore. “So you’re a dragon.  Is there anything else you want to tell me?!”

 

_Between safety and adventure, I must choose adventure._

 

“I love you,” falls from his mouth like it’s nothing and everything at the same time.

 

 

 

Something within loosens, sparks, expands on a rolling wave of heat, and catches.

 

 

 

He has a squirming human pinned beneath a claw and half a dozen others running from a blast of fire when he becomes aware of what has happened.

 

His body is maybe forty-five feet long, covered in red and gold plating. Fire burns brightly in his belly.  He feels _right_ , like his skin never really did.  This is what he is.

 

A dragon.

 

Zemo is laughing delightedly, and Steve is just staring. The noise of the German’s laughter is too much on his overwhelmed senses.

 

It takes nothing to pin Zemo under a claw and to breathe the tranquilizing gas into his face. Zemo squirms, but then goes limp after a moment.

 

Steve is still standing there, staring, oblivious to the henchmen squealing like mice everywhere.  "Tony?"  He sounds terrified.  Steve isn't usually terrified of huge beasts.  Why is he scared of Tony?

 

 _I'm still me._   And he is.  Phasing hasn't changed anything aside from the knowledge of how to phase.  He's still _Tony_ , he still loves his suits and he will continue to sort his M&M's by color before he eats them.  He will still drink too much coffee and still loves Steve.

 

Maybe it's not the dragon thing that has Steve frozen.

 

The crackle of fire on metal makes him act.  He swoops out with a claw, hooking Steve by the shield harness on his back and takes off.  A decent-sized hole has burned through the sagging ceiling, and by pulling all six limbs close to his body, he flies out.

 

He lets Steve down on one of the relatively unscathed sides of the building, then takes  to the air again, scanning the perimeter.  The Avengers are hacking away at the fleeing troops, but they have it more than covered.  Carol is playing with her food and getting mad when someone shoots it before she's finished playing.  They don't seem distressed that there is a dragon flying around, and they aren't aiming at him thankfully.  He blasts a line of henchmen with fire, and someone lets out a whoop.

 

He spots Zemo's unconscious body being loaded into an evac shuttle, but he lets him go.  It will be easier to let him think he got away, and will give him time to gather all the intel he has on dragonkind close, then go after him.  Anyway, Steve should be there for Zemo's downfall, after all the shit the Baron has given him, and having a shell-shocked Steve arrest the the guy when he's out of it is just . . . unsatisfying.

 

Whenever Steve gets called a drama queen, he glares at the speaker but doesn't actually _deny_ it.

 

No one questions why a dragon is helping them out, but they've had weirder allies.  He makes sure they've got the henchmen largely rounded up before he flies back off to where Steve is still standing.

 

Phasing back, for all his struggle with the initial phase, is laughably easy.  The fire within him dims and he shrinks, wings folding to nothing, and he is left standing there, human again but with knowledge and power bubbling in wait.

 

Of course, he's also naked.

 

“Just like old times.”

 

Steve smiles weakly, through he looks like he's about to vomit.

 

“So, I can phase.”

 

“I can see that.”

 

“It’s the first time I did that, actually.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Steve’s voice has gone high, like he’s almost hysterical.  Tony's about to say something, he doesn't know what, when Carol screams at them.

 

“TONY, WHY ARE YOU NAKED?"

 

"Ugh."

 

"TONY, DO YOU NEED PANTS?  OR A CONDOM?  TOOOOOONY.  STEVE, REMEMBER: THERE'S ALWAYS TIME FOR LUBE.  BE GENTLE, HE'S A SENSITIVE FLOWER."

 

"Thank you, Carol," they shout in unison.

 

"I THINK YOU MISSED IT BUT THERE WAS A FUCKING DRAGON EARLIER.  DRAGON.  DID YOU SEE WHERE IT WENT?"

 

"Maybe you're seeing things."

 

"BUT _DRAGON_."

 

 

 

He’s bemoaning the state of his armor when Steve comes looking for him.

 

The phasing wasn’t planned, and he’d been trapped, but he still didn’t like seeing his armor in shredded curls of metal. Not really salvageable, save maybe some of the electronics.  He has plenty of backup armors, but he spends so much time and effort on building each one and knows them so intimately, it’s not unusual for him to mourn them a tad.

 

Tony has just begun exploring possible specs for an auto-release function that would make sure any future armors can read him for phasing and will shed accordingly without being torn to shreds. It’s going to take some time.  He’s going to have to spend time measuring the physiological indicators of impending phasing.  Hell, he needs to spend some time exploring his dragon body.

 

He’s wincing from how terrible that sounds when he hears Steve clear his throat behind him.

 

“So, am I to assume that’s your dragon hoard?” Steve teases as he waves over at the ever-growing mound of tech, tools, and building materials.

 

“Actually, yes.”

 

“Really?” Steve’s curious now.  “Huh.  I thought hoards were more like gold and jewels and princess and stuff.”

 

“Could be. In all actuality, it’s what you find valuable.  By ‘you’ I mean the dragon in question.  Most hoard books and art.  One of my cousins hoards geodes.  My great-great-great uncle hoards seeds.  It varies.  But dragons do like shiny things, as a rule.”

 

“Huh,” Steve says again. “And you hoard things that you can use to make other things?”

 

“I hadn’t really thought about it. I don’t really notice I’m doing it.  But I think you might be right.”

 

They stare at each other for a long moment.

 

Steve clears his throat again. “We have to head after Zemo while the trail is still fresh.”

 

Talking shop. This they can do.  “Are you going to get pissed if I tell you I can track him because of that stuff I breathed on him?”

 

Steve shakes his head in mock exasperation. “Why am I not surprised?  That gives us some time, then?”

 

“Let him think he’s safe, then we’ll head after him. He won’t be able to wash it off for months.”

 

“How – “

 

“Embeds itself in the dermis.”

 

“Ah.”

 

They lapse into silence again. Steve walks over towards the table Tony is working at, and picks up and examines a piece of the shredded armor.

 

“How are you handling it?” Steve asks unexpectedly.

 

“Handling what?”

 

“You know. This whole . . . dragon thing.”

 

That stumps him. Because he doesn’t really know.  “I’m not really sure.  I’ve accepted it, but I don’t think I’ve come to terms with it.”

 

Steve nods in understanding. He looks almost shy as he asks his next question.  “Are you . . . going back?”

 

“For what?”

 

“Well, you came back to help us with the Zemo thing, and it does involve your, uh, family.”

 

“Shell,” Tony says vacantly.

 

“Your shell, then.”

 

“Tell me this, Steve: do you want me to go back?”

 

“I want you to do what you need to do.”

 

“That’s not an answer.”

 

“Fine!” Steve throws his hands up in defeat.  “I want you to stay, happy?  I always want you to stay.  And after what you said – “ Steve looks away “ – but I’ll never force you to stay.”

 

“I’m going to live a long time.”

 

Steve turns around. “What?”

 

“Steve, I’m going to live a long time. We tend to live for centuries.  Yeah, you can get killed and stuff, but if I _don’t?_ ”

 

“So?”

 

“Steve, the serum makes you functionally immortal. You can be killed, but otherwise?  You’re going to live a _long time_.”

 

“I’m not following you.”

 

There’s hope, burning hot and bright in his chest, and he wants to stifle it, but it is impossible. After so much time, there’s a chance.  A _chance._ And Tony would give up everything just to have this chance.

 

“Steve, a lot of our friends are gonna die. They’re gonna get old and die and there’s nothing we can do about it.  But the world isn’t going to sit back and keep the peace.  There will always be new threats, and there are going to need to be Avengers to fight those threats.”

 

“You mean - ?”

 

“If I know you, and I do, you’re going to be doing this forever. This is what your calling is.  I don’t have any _obligations_ to return and live among my shell.  I can do whatever I want.  Our role is to protect Earth in the way we see fit.  And you and I have a pretty decent track record of protecting Earth.”

 

“Tony.” Steve face is full of light, but is terribly cautious, like he wants to believe but is terrified to.  “Spell it out.  Please.”

 

“Steve Rogers, would you do me the honor of helping me save the world for the rest of time?”

 

“You’re such a cheeseball.” But Steve is smiling and is reaching out and taking Tony’s hand, looking a lot less alone then he has for as long as Tony has known him.

 

“I’m taking that as a yes.”

 

Steve pulls him into his arms, and it’s the same and different, because he’s so familiar with Steve’s embrace but know he doesn’t have to break it off, doesn’t have to hide what he’s feeling, he can stay in the warmth as long as he likes. This is coming in from the cold Russian winter and chucking your thermal mittens away, because _you_ are warm, and no outside force may ever change that.

 

Tony thinks Steve might be feeling the same way.

 

“I know this is stupid, but do you have another name? They had to have given you one before you were adopted.”

 

“Why do you want to know?”

 

“Just curious. Because if you prefer your other name I can start – “

 

“Whoa there. David Drakovich Kuznetsov was the human name my mother gave me.  But my true name is Dragotsennyy of the Stalimasshtab.”

 

“Oh. That’s a mouthful.  What does it mean?”

 

“‘Precious One of the Steelscales.’ But don’t go tripping over yourself.  I’m still very much Tony.”

 

“Good.” Steve presses a kiss to his temple.  “You’ll always be Tony to me.  But it does fit.”

 

“Yeah. Just add some carbon to the iron to make steel, I will say it’s odd – “

 

“That’s not what I meant, _Precious One._ ”

 

“Oh, no, please don’t let this become a thing.”

 

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.”

 

 _A new adventure_ something within him whispers. _Together._

 

 

 

“Ready?”

 

Steve nods wordlessly.

 

He looks slightly terrified, which is something Tony can’t say he’s seen a lot of. Sure, Steve has faced plenty of things that would make most people shit their pants in fear with gritted teeth and defiant remarks.  But this isn’t something like that.  His life isn’t at stake.

 

Tony feels the way his guts churn, and knows that might not be true.

 

Steve is decked out in his Cap suit, sans helmet. He appears vulnerable, shorn blond hair glinting in the bloody sunset, sky streaked with purples and oranges.  Frilly cirrus clouds magnify the colors, with a faint smattering of cumulus to add interest.  Tony has long since learned the optimum clouds to have when one is hoping to fly.  (No, Thor’s preferences don’t count unless they’re on their way to a fight.)  Clear skies are nice, but there’s no fun without obstacles. 

 

As much as they complain about the difficulties, that’s what makes life worth it.

 

He stares at Steve, and Steve stares back, and that hesitant tender hope that lingers within him is reflected back.

 

Tony helps Steve with his breathing apparatus, strapping it to his back and untangling the tubes and mask as they straighten the straps. Steve ends up with the mask tucked beneath his chin, staring at Tony intently, like he’s searching a battle map for clues to victory.  “Honestly Tony, I think I’ll be fine without it.”

 

Tony takes a deep breath, and fiddles with the hem of his loose tee shirt. His sweatpants are full of grease stains and holes, and his bare feet are cold on the smooth white concrete of the roof.  “You don’t have to wear it.  In fact, I’d prefer it if you didn’t.  You’ll get more out of it without it.  Trust me.  But emergencies, Cap.  Can’t have America’s sweetheart die of asphyxia on my watch.”

 

“What about your sweetheart?” It’s tentative, very tentative, but this new thing between them feels so fragile still, even though they both know it’s stronger than carbon fiber.  They’ve just done so much to each other; they’re terrified of what might happen.

 

But maybe they’re more terrified of what will happen if this _doesn’t_ work.  Tony doesn’t want to lose Steve ever again, and he is fairly certain the feeling is mutual.

 

That was the major source of Steve’s anger over Tony’s sabbatical. He’s admitted it now.  As much as he was happy that Tony had found some peace, he worried over it stealing Tony away.

 

“Sometimes I feel like no matter what I do, you’re not going to believe me. I could tattoo ‘TONY LESS THAN THREE NUMERAL’S STEVE’ on the Skull’s face, and you’d still ask me if it was true.”

 

“Can’t blame me for wanting to hear it,” Steve says softly, with stardust or some other sort of romantic cliché glittering in his eyes, but Tony _really_ doesn’t care.  He cups a hand around the back of Steve’s neck and pulls him down a few inches to be within kissing range (he curses his lack of shoes). 

 

The sky has darkened considerably by the time they break apart, violet and plum shadows streaking the clouds. “Well, we had best get going.  Can’t let Zemo dance around free forever.”

 

“Right.” Tony steps away, peeling off his clothing.  Steve doesn’t avert his eyes, it’s nothing he hasn’t seen, but he’s allowed to look now, Tony supposes.  Or he allows himself to look. 

 

Tony steps up onto the low wall, naked as he looks down at Manhattan. He allows the rolling, sparking heat that now hums beneath his skin constantly to grow and expand, and he feels his body morph.

 

He flies a single lap around the building, before alighting again on the wall, his claws scraping lightly at the concrete.

 

Steve is staring at him with what Tony recognizes as his artist’s eye as he approaches, filled with wonder but trying to capture and understand as well.

 

Tony lowers his head and perks up his antennae and frill for Steve to explore. Steve’s fingers are cautious and the look on his face is awed as he traces the lines of Tony’s snout, taps his scales, runs his fingers along the line of the antennae.  It’s intense and focused, and Tony is terrified, but he’s also terrified not to have Steve’s hands on him.

 

“You’re beautiful.”

 

All Tony can think after a moment is _What?_

 

“You’re beautiful. You’ve always been beautiful.  I just guess I can finally tell you.”

 

Tentatively, Steve presses a kiss to Tony’s snout. It’s a cleansing fire, burning away some of the hurt and crud that surrounds his heart.

 

He shakes out his spine, curling his body.

 

"Your relatives will meet up with us?"

 

_Mid-flight.  They're eager to help.  Many want revenge, and the rest want the threat eliminated.  Hop on._

 

Steve is careful as he climbs on Tony’s back, but sure of himself and his footing. Steve already knows where to place his feet and hands, like he was some sort of dragon rider in a previous life.

 

Maybe he was.

 

Steve hooks his boots around Tony’s wing joints and adjusts the mask to be readily accessible. “Ready?”

 

_A new adventure. Yes._

 

“Alright. Let’s fly.”

 

Steve grips the ridge of Tony’s spine, and he spreads his wings. The evening air is cool, and whispers along his scales.  Effortlessly, they alight to the air.

**Author's Note:**

> This needs like 18 million words, but alas, my life is shit rn. Still, I hope you enjoyed it!


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